I must return.
The city of my illness.
The fight of my life.
That city is a prison, that city is a cell.
Time ticking, life ebbing, rain pounding,
in a city I don’t want to go,
haunted by a ghost I don’t want to know.
Past-me still stalks that city’s streets,
Sinking in secrets and shame.
Smiling in the solitude, soothed by the storm.
Past-me sits, so alone, scared and suffering,
Safe in the prison of illness,
chained and choking,
Screaming and sobbing and silent.
I will make peace with the city of my illness
Past-me will not haunt my future.
Future-me will rattle the bars of my prison,
scream and sob and be heard.
Future-me will return to those scarred city streets,
Streaked with failure and frustration and fighting,
Re-paint them with fire and freedom and a future I love.
Future-me is me.